FIRST PERSON

Adventures in Sociological Speed-Dating

A job candidate tests her interview skills at her field's annual convention and finds they're a little rusty

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By MARGARET TENNANT

Years of studying and student loans, coffee binges and crying jags have culminated in my Official Entry into the academic job market. I haven't had to apply or even interview for a job in (gulp) 11 years. My inner job seeker — the one who used to fill out applications in legible handwriting and coerce friends into practicing mock interviews — may not be dead, but she has been in a coma.

My department encourages graduate students to participate in the job service at the annual meeting of the American Sociological Association. You send in your CV and departments that are interested in talking to you schedule a conference interview. I have heard the service described variously as the biggest waste of time imaginable or the best possible way to put yourself on the market.

"Please," snorted a friend of mine who had actually used the service in 2007. "It's the sociological equivalent of speed-dating — painful, awkward, and ultimately pointless."

Nevertheless, my adviser and some well-meaning members of my dissertation committee urged me to give it a shot. "It's good practice," they said. "And what have you got to lose?" Actually, I lost $45 the minute I signed up for the service, but I assured myself it would be worth it for the interview experience and possible job offers.

In August, I traveled to Boston and found myself trying to navigate the labyrinth of hotels and conference centers taken over by sociologists. The booths for registration and check-in were adjacent to the job-interview area so as I collected my umpteenth, post-recycled canvas bag and a conference program that could easily pass for a local phone book, I decided to peek in to the interview area.

I was immediately stopped by a woman wearing a blue police-like uniform and — was that a gun holstered to her hip? "Employer Pass," she demanded.

"I er, um, it's, ah. I have an interview here? Tomorrow?" Inwardly, I cursed my tendency to end sentences in a singsong query when I am nervous.

She stared at me as though she was trying to suss out my terrorist capabilities. Her gaze fell upon my painfully high heels and pathetic home pedicure, and that seemed to satisfy her that (a) I was incapable of running past her, or anyone else, and (b) I don't have hands steady enough to wield a nail-polish brush, let alone a weapon.

Her tone softened. "Do you have an interview here, Miss?"

"Um, ah, yes," I replied, "tomorrow."

"Well, OK then," she said. "Come back tomorrow and they'll set you up with a name badge and an interview pass."

Upon my return the next day, I passed through a complex bureaucracy to procure said name tag and interview pass. An older man in a tomato-colored sweater vest led me and other job candidates through a quick "tutorial" about what to expect. He had clearly delivered the talk many times before yet still managed to do it with an impressive level of care and detail.

A series of loud, electronic bells, he said, would mark the interview process — a beginning bell, a five-minute warning bell, and a "time's up" bell. Employers should have copies of your CV, he told us, but it's always good to carry extras. If you really want an interview that you didn't get with a particular department, e-mail the interviewers directly and tell them you're their perfect candidate. "But most important," he urged us with a smile, "just be yourselves." At that point, I fervidly hoped that my potential employers would be half as lovely as the man in the tomato-colored sweater vest.

In my first interview, with a department on the West Coast, a pair of sunny blonds in sharp suits greeted me. He was chipper and she was bored. Bored, bored, bored. I hadn't seen a face that frozen in the "I totally am not hearing you right now" expression since I taught undergrads about Parsons' sick-role theory. Come to think of it, her automatic nod was identical to theirs.

I noticed her highlights were expensive and well done. That gave me just the tiniest sliver of hope that, as a junior faculty member, I might be able to afford something I have only dreamed of in the last few years: an actual hairdresser. Since the two blonds were so clearly uninterested in me, I allowed the fantasy of what I would do with an actual income to occupy my mind until the succession of bells ended our meeting.

Between interviews I ran into "Mark," a friend of mine from another sociology department. We compared notes and the usual jokes about how everyone here looked like cattle headed for slaughter. And then we sat in cold metal chairs, staring straight ahead and waiting for the ear-piercing bell to lift us in unison from our seats and propel us forward into the throng of other jobless bodies.

On my way to the next interview, I spied "Kevin," a guy from my department, ending his interview with "my" potential employer. We exchanged pleasantries and I sat in the folding chair he had just occupied. Another male and female duo greeted me, but these folks looked more like academics. "I see that you and Kevin are in the same department," the woman said.

"Yes, he's a great guy."

"Lots of teaching experience," she said.

"Actually," I replied, "he's got the most teaching experience of anyone in our department."

"Reeeally," she intoned, fresh interest in her voice.

A slight tightness appeared in my throat, but I ignored it. "Oh yes," I replied, nodding vigorously. "And a nicer guy you will never meet." At that point, a voice interrupted inside my head, "Um, what are you doing?" but I forged ahead: "He's in my cohort. He's smart as a whip, but not at all condescending."

As the two interviewers exchanged glances, I realized that the tightness in my throat was actually my inner, wiser, job-seeking self, attempting to strangle me before I could cough up any more platitudes about my competitor. Unfortunately, my inherent honesty was on some sort of self-loathing roll. "Yeah," I added. "He's totally a star."

With a final look exchanged between the pair, the interview marched on. The two were polite and asked all the right questions, but I could tell their hearts weren't in it. Neither was mine.

"What. Was. That?!?" my inner job seeker began barking at me, as the interview drew to a close. "Why don't you just give the job away? Maybe you and Kevin could be a team? He warms them up, you seal the deal." My inner job seeker is not only on edge, she's kind of mean.

The final bell rang, commanding us to end our interview. As I stood to go, I turned to find "Liz" standing behind me, waiting for my still-warm chair.

"Hi!" she squealed in delight. We hugged. I truly adore Liz, I think she's great, and I am surprised someone hasn't snatched her up for a job yet. I broke from her embrace and turned to share that insight with my recent interviewers.

Old habits die hard. They looked from her to me expectantly, smiles in place. I started to say "Liz here is amaz — ," but my inner job seeker finally got a good grip round my windpipe and I coughed and spluttered like a woman choking on her own self-interest.

Everyone looked at me askance. "Are you OK?" asked Liz. I smiled reassuringly, patted her on the back, and walked away. "Nice," hissed my inner job seeker.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. After two more interviews I called my husband, who had made the trip with me, to make sure he was not withering away in the hotel room. "Hey," he greeted me on the phone. "I met up with Robert, Kristen, and Kim, and we're all here at the bar having some wine. You should come join us." He didn't need to ask me twice.

As of this writing, I have sent out my job applications. I'm glad that I experienced sociological speed-dating, but I must say that, for me, the interviews weren't as rewarding as just meeting people in various sessions or receptions and letting them know I was going on the market.

Clearly, my inner job seeker and I are rusty, but I'm confident we'll be able to work together as a team. At least we are on speaking terms again, and she is considering some therapy sessions in frustration management.

Margaret Tennant is the pseudonym of a Ph.D. candidate in sociology. She is chronicling her search for her first tenure-track job.